Somebody Come and Play
by purpleblogofsex
Summary: Sherlock has a few harsh words for Molly and reduces her to tears and fleeing. On her way out of Barts', she bumps into Jim, and he manages to cheer her up.


**Amuse Me drabble prompt. I wrote better as Sherlock than Jim in this, I think. Idk. Jim from IT is just not my strong point...**

**R&R~**

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**Somebody Come and Play**

___Somebody come and smile the smiles,__  
__And sing the songs,__  
__It won't take long.__  
__Somebody come and rhyme the rhymes,__  
__And laugh the laughs,__  
__It won't take time.__  
__Somebody come with me and see the pleasure in the wind.__  
__Somebody come before it gets too late to begin.__  
__Somebody come and be my friend,__  
__And watch the sun until it rains again.__  
__Somebody come and play… today._

"You're lying."

Molly blinked in shock, for she hadn't said a thinkg to him since he came—she'd had so many post-mortems today that she couldn't spare the time to stutter at him—into the morgue, at Sherlock as he sat in frot of the microscope, observing the rate at which silver nitrate froze warm, living tissue. "E-ex-excuse me?"

"You're lying, Molly."

"H-how? I don't understand…"

"D's, Molly. You're lying about your D's."

A flush crept upon Molly's face, and she scrambled for a reply. "I'm sorry… I, um, I don't understand…"

"Don't be dull, Molly," Sherlock muttered absentmindedly, paying more attention to the silver nitrate than the stuttering morgue attendant before him. "Your breasts. You barely make a B on a day-to-day basis, and yet you're a D today. Who is he?"

"I'm sorry? No one. There's n-n-no one, Sherlock! And how do you… How do you know I'm… I'm _not_ a B-cup!"

Sherlock glanced up at her from teh microscope and observed her frame before going back to his research. "36 inch frame. Average size of a man's hand can hold, roughly all of a D-cup, depending on the band size of the bra. Your breasts would struggle to fill the average man's hand. C's provide an ample amount, and D's even more so. So, you're correct; I was wrong. It was a compliment to claim you were a B, when clearly you're an A…"

Without the buffer of John's presence to make Sherlock's bluntness less harsh, Molly's face burned with shame, and she took pains to step away slowly—rather than running—muttering poor excuses to get out of his presence before the tears began to fall. Her stammering fell upon deaf ears; Sherlock had lost himself in the crystalized tissue before him.

With each step that brought Molly further out of the morgue, the pain that Sherlock had caused became the focus of Molly's mind more and more. A few of her co-workers who noticed she was distressed confronted her, but she waved them off, blaming it on sickness. Buying it rather than dealing with a potential sobbing morgue attendant, they let her go, and she walked up the stairs to the first floor of Barts'.

About to make her way through the front entrance, Molly walked into Jim who was on his way in to start his shift for the day.

"Oh, Molly! Hullo there!" He greeted her with a smile, taking in her red, bright eyes and the flux of emotions crossing her face. "Are you ok, Molly?"

She nodded quickly, just wanting to be out of the hospital, hoping he'd buy it, but he gently grabbed her arm and turned around, leading her outside. "Let's get you some fresh air." He brought her to one of the benches and sat her down. "What's wrong…?"

"Oh… Nothing. Just… just work." Her voice was cracked and low, and she refused to look him in the eye, instead gazing upon her hands in her lap.

"Was it _him?_"

"Wh-who?"

Sitting beside Molly, Jim shrugged and mumbled off quietly. "You know…_Sherlock._"

"N-n-no… It wasn't him." She quickly lied and fidgeted even more.

"What'd he say?"

"It's n-nothing. Really."

Jim reached over and softly touched her shoulder. "You can trust me, Molls. Really. I care about you a lot—even if we just met a little while ago… What'd he say?"

"He just says the most… awful things. I think he knows about you—well, our little date-thing tonight, anyway… He ridiculed me for being… not so… well-endowed…"

Jim's eyes widened a bit, and he shook his head. "I disagree. I think you have a lovely figure."

"It's, um, not… 100% real, though. Bras… andsuch. It'snotlikeIcouldaffordsurgery…" And Molly bit at her lip, knowing that he wouldn't be interested in her flat chest and thin frame; the boys in college and uni never were, and even if nothing between them, well, _occurred_, at least Molly could have had the feeling that Jim felt she was pretty… before she told him.

"Well, to be quite honest, Molly. I don't really like girls _that_ way… Not very often, anyway. You're rather special, and I don't care how much of a chest you have or don't have. All that matters is this." He said as he lightly tapped over her heart. "And you've got a lot of it, Molly Hooper." Leaning in close, Jim whispered to her. "Besides, I've got a secret too. You're not the only one who stuffs…" His face flushed, he leaned back and smiled at her. "I had an impression to make on you too…"

At Jim's confession, Molly gave an awkward giggle. "I, um… Thank you, Jim. That was very… sweet." A shy smile tipped her lips up, and she started to flush out of happy embarrassment rather than shame.

Jim was so nice. He always said the… right things.

"So, are you done with work then, or did you take a break? I was thinking I could skip out on my shift, and we could start our date early. Come out and play, Molly." Jim whispered with a wink, grabbing onto her hand shyly but firmly.

Her smile bigger now, Molly thought about it for a few seconds; she was working overtime right now. She could leave. "I… I think I might. Yes. Let's."

And they did.


End file.
